Suzanne, who wondered what it could be, walked away. She was wondering what it was that Angela had to tell. The latter's manner was not exactly suggestive of the weighty secret she bore. When Suzanne was gone, Angela whispered to him.

"It's a lie!" said Eugene vigorously, desperately, hopelessly. "It's something you've trumped up for the occasion. It's just like you to say that, to do it! Pah! I don't believe it. It's a lie! It's a lie! You know it's a lie!"

"It's the truth!" said Angela angrily, pathetically, outraged in her every nerve and thought by the reception which this fact had received, and desperate to think that the announcement of a coming child by him should be received in this manner under such circ.u.mstances that it should be forced from her as a last resort, only to be received with derision and scorn. "It's the truth, and you ought to be ashamed to say that to me. What can I expect from a man, though, who would introduce another woman into his own home as you have tonight?" To think that she should be reduced to such a situation as this so suddenly! It was impossible to argue it with him here. She was ashamed now that she had introduced it at this time. He would not believe her, anyhow now, she saw that. It only enraged him and her. He was too wild. This seemed to infuriate him--to condemn her in his mind as a trickster and a sharper, someone who was using unfair means to hold him. He almost jumped away from her in disgust, and she realized that she had struck an awful blow which apparently, to him, had some elements of unfairness in it.

"Won't you have the decency after this to send her away?" she pleaded aloud, angrily, eagerly, bitterly.

Eugene was absolutely in a fury of feeling. If ever he thoroughly hated and despised Angela, he did so at that moment. To think that she should have done anything like this! To think that she should have complicated this problem of weariness of her with a thing like this! How cheap it was, how shabby! It showed the measure of the woman, to bring a child into the world, regardless of the interests of the child, in order to hold him against his will. d.a.m.n! h.e.l.l! G.o.d d.a.m.n such a complicated, rotten world! No, she was lying. She could not hold him that way. It was a horrible, low, vile trick. He would have nothing to do with her. He would show her. He would leave her. He would show her that this sort of thing would not work with him. It was like every other petty thing she had ever done. Never, never, never, would he let this stand in the way. Oh, what a mean, cruel, wretched thing to do!

Suzanne came back while they were arguing. She half suspected what it was all about, but she did not dare to act or think clearly. The events of this night were too numerous, too complicated. Eugene had said so forcibly it was a lie whatever it was, that she half believed him. That was a sign surely of the little affection that existed between him and Angela. Angela was not crying. Her face was hard, white, drawn.

"I can't stay here," said Suzanne dramatically to Eugene. "I will go somewhere. I had better go to a hotel for the night. Will you call a car?"

"Listen to me, Suzanne," said Eugene vigorously and determinedly. "You love me, don't you?"

"You know I do," she replied.

Angela stirred sneeringly.

"Then you will stay here. I want you to pay no attention to anything she may say or declare. She has told me a lie tonight. I know why. Don't let her deceive you. Go to your room and your bed. I want to talk to you tomorrow. There is no need of your leaving tonight. There is plenty of room here. It's silly. You're here now--stay."

"But I don't think I'd better stay," said Suzanne nervously.

Eugene took her hand rea.s.suringly.

"Listen to me," he began.

"But she won't stay," said Angela.

"But she will," said Eugene; "and if she don't stay, she goes with me. I will take her home."

"Oh, no, you won't!" replied Angela.

"Listen," said Eugene angrily. "This isn't six years ago, but now. I'm master of this situation, and she stays here. She stays here, or she goes with me and you look to the future as best you may. I love her. I'm not going to give her up, and if you want to make trouble, begin now. The house comes down on your head, not mine."

"Oh!" said Angela, half terrified, "what do I hear?"

"Just that. Now you go to your room. Suzanne will go to hers. I will go to mine. We will not have any more fighting here tonight. The jig is up. The die is cast. I'm through. Suzanne comes to me, if she will."

Angela walked to her room through the studio, stricken by the turn things had taken, horrified by the thoughts in her mind, unable to convince Eugene, unable to depose Suzanne, her throat dry and hot, her hands shaking, her heart beating fitfully; she felt as if her brain would burst, her heart break actually, not emotionally. She thought Eugene had gone crazy, and yet now, for the first time in her married life, she realized what a terrible mistake she had made in always trying to drive him. It hadn't worked tonight, her rage, her domineering, critical att.i.tude. It had failed her completely, and also this scheme, this beautiful plan, this trump card on which she had placed so much reliance for a happy life, this child which she had hoped to play so effectively. He didn't believe her. He wouldn't even admit its possibility. He didn't admire her for it. He despised her! He looked on it as a trick. Oh, what an unfortunate thing it had been to mention it! And yet Suzanne must understand, she must know, she would never countenance anything like this. But what would he do? He was positively livid with rage. What fine auspices these were under which to usher a child into the world! She stared feverishly before her, and finally began to cry hopelessly.

Eugene stood in the hall beside Suzanne after she had gone. His face was drawn, his eyes hunted, his hair tousled. He looked grim and determined in his way, stronger than he had ever looked before.

"Suzanne," he said, taking the latter by her two arms and staring into her eyes, "she has told me a lie, a lie, a cold, mean, cruel lie. She'll tell it you shortly. She says she is with child by me. It isn't so. She couldn't have one. If she did, it would kill her. She would have had one long ago if she could have. I know her. She thinks this will frighten me. She thinks it will drive you away. Will it? It's a lie, do you hear me, whatever she says. It's a lie, and she knows it. Ough!" He dropped her left arm and pulled at his neck. "I can't stand this. You won't leave me. You won't believe her, will you?"

Suzanne stared into his distraught face, his handsome, desperate, significant eyes. She saw the woe there, the agony, and was sympathetic. He seemed wonderfully worthy of love, unhappy, unfortunately pursued; and yet she was frightened. Still she had promised to love him.

"No," she said fixedly, her eyes speaking a dramatic confidence.

"You won't leave here tonight?"

"No."

She smoothed his cheek with her hand.

"You will come and walk with me in the morning? I have to talk with you."

"Yes."

"Don't be afraid. Just lock your door if you are. She won't bother you. She won't do anything. She is afraid of me. She may want to talk with you, but I am close by. Do you still love me?"

"Yes."

"Will you come to me if I can arrange it?"

"Yes."

"Even in the face of what she says?"

"Yes; I don't believe her. I believe you. What difference could it make, anyhow? You don't love her."

"No," he said; "no, no, no! I never have." He drew her into his arms wearily, relievedly. "Oh, Flower Face," he said, "don't give me up! Don't grieve. Try not to, anyhow. I have been bad, as she says, but I love you. I love you, and I will stake all on that. If all this must fall about our heads, then let it fall. I love you."

Suzanne stroked his cheek with her hands nervously. She was deathly pale, frightened, but somehow courageous through it all. She caught strength from his love.

"I love you," she said.

"Yes," he replied. "You won't give me up?"

"No, I won't," she said, not really understanding the depth of her own mood. "I will be true."

"Things will be better tomorrow," he said, somewhat more quietly. "We will be calmer. We will walk and talk. You won't leave without me?"

"No."

"Please don't; for I love you, and we must talk and plan."

CHAPTER X.

The introduction of this astonishing fact in connection with Angela was so unexpected, so morally diverting and peculiar that though Eugene denied it, half believed she was lying, he was hara.s.sed by the thought that she might be telling the truth. It was so unfair, though, was all he could think, so unkind! It never occurred to him that it was accidental, as indeed it was not, but only that it was a trick, sharp, cunning, ill-timed for him, just the thing calculated to blast his career and tie him down to the old regime when he wanted most to be free. A new life was dawning for him now. For the first time in his life he was to have a woman after his own heart, so young, so beautiful, so intellectual, so artistic! With Suzanne by his side, he was about to plumb the depths of all the joys of living. Without her, life was to be dark and dreary, and here was Angela coming forward at the critical moment disrupting this dream as best she could by the introduction of a child that she did not want, and all to hold him against his will. If ever he hated her for trickery and sharp dealing, he did so now. What would the effect on Suzanne be? How would he convince her that it was a trick? She must understand; she would. She would not let this miserable piece of chicanery stand between him and her. He turned in his bed wearily after he had gone to it, but he could not sleep. He had to say something, do something. So he arose, slipped on a dressing gown, and went to Angela's room.

That distraught soul, for all her determination and fighting capacity, was enduring for the second time in her life the fires of h.e.l.l. To think that in spite of all her work, her dreams, this recent effort to bring about peace and happiness, perhaps at the expense of her own life, she was compelled to witness a scene like this. Eugene was trying to get free. He was obviously determined to do so. This scandalous relationship, when had it begun? Would her effort to hold him fail? It looked that way, and yet surely Suzanne, when she knew, when she understood, would leave him. Any woman would.

Her head ached, her hands were hot, she fancied she might be suffering a terrible nightmare, she was so sick and weak; but, no, this was her room. A little while ago she was sitting in her husband's studio, surrounded by friends, the object of much solicitude, Eugene apparently considerate and thoughtful of her, a beautiful programme being rendered for their special benefit. Now she was lying here in her room, a despised wife, an outcast from affection and happiness, the victim of some horrible sorcery of fate whereby another woman stood in her place in Eugene's affection. To see Suzanne, proud in her young beauty, confronting her with bold eyes, holding her husband's hand, saying in what seemed to her to be brutal, or insane, or silly melodramatic make-believe, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla," was maddening. Oh, G.o.d! Oh, G.o.d! Would her tortures never cease? Must all her beautiful dreams come to nothing? Would Eugene leave her, as he so violently said a little while ago? She had never seen him like this. It was terrible to see him so determined, so cold and brutal. His voice had actually been harsh and guttural, something she had never known before in him.

She trembled as she thought, and then great flashes of rage swept her only to be replaced by rushes of fear. She was in such a terrific position. The woman was with him, young, defiant, beautiful. She had heard him call to her, had heard them talking. Once she thought that now would be the time to murder him, Suzanne, herself, the coming life and end it all; but at this critical moment, having been sick and having grown so much older, with this problem of the coming life before her, she had no chart to go by. She tried to console herself with the thought that he must abandon his course, that he would when the true force of what she had revealed had had time to sink home; but it had not had time yet. Would it before he did anything rash? Would it before he had completely compromised himself and Suzanne? Judging from her talk and his, he had not as yet, or she thought not. What was he going to do? What was he going to do?

Angela feared as she lay there that in spite of her revelation he might really leave her immediately. There might readily spring a terrible public scandal out of all this. The mockery of their lives laid bare; the fate of the child jeopardized; Eugene, Suzanne, and herself disgraced, though she had little thought for Suzanne. Suzanne might get him, after all. She might accidentally be just hard and cold enough. The world might possibly forgive him. She herself might die! What an end, after all her dreams of something bigger, better, surer! Oh, the pity, the agony of this! The terror and horror of a wrecked life!

And then Eugene came into the room.

He was haggard, stormy-eyed, thoughtful, melancholy, as he entered. He stood in the doorway first, intent, then clicked a little night-lamp b.u.t.ton which threw on a very small incandescent light near the head of Angela's bed, and then sat down in a rocking-chair which the nurse had placed near the medicine table. Angela had so much improved that no night nurse was needed--only a twelve-hour one.

"Well," he said solemnly but coldly, when he saw her pale, distraught, much of her old, youthful beauty still with her, "you think you have scored a splendid trick, don't you? You think you have sprung a trap? I simply came in here to tell you that you haven't--that you have only seen the beginning of the end. You say you are going to have a child. I don't believe it. It's a lie, and you know it's a lie. You saw that there was an end coming to all this state of weariness some time, and this is your answer. Well, you've played one trick too many, and you've played it in vain. You lose. I win this time. I'm going to be free now, I want to say to you, and I am going to be free if I have to turn everything upside down. I don't care if there were seventeen prospective children instead of one. It's a lie, in the first place; but if it isn't, it's a trick, and I'm not going to be tricked any longer. I've had all I want of domination and trickery and cheap ideas. I'm through now, do you hear me? I'm through."

He felt his forehead with a nervous hand. His head ached, he was half sick. This was such a dreary pit to find himself in, this pit of matrimony, chained by a domineering wife and a trickily manoeuvred child. His child! What a mockery at this stage of his life! How he hated the thought of that sort of thing, how cheap it all seemed!

Angela, who was wide-eyed, flushed, exhausted, lying staring on her pillow, asked in a weary, indifferent voice: "What do you want me to do, Eugene, leave you?"

"I'll tell you, Angela," he said sepulchrally, "I don't know what I want you to do just at this moment. The old life is all over. It's as dead as dead can be. For eleven or twelve years now I have lived with you, knowing all the while that I was living a lie. I have never really loved you since we were married. You know that. I may have loved you in the beginning, yes, I did, and at Blackwood, but that was a long, long while ago. I never should have married you. It was a mistake, but I did, and I've paid for it, inch by inch. You have, too. You have insisted all along that I ought to love you. You have browbeaten and abused me for something I could no more do than I could fly. Now, at this last minute, you introduce a child to hold me. I know why you have done it. You imagine that in some way you have been appointed by G.o.d to be my mentor and guardian. Well, I tell you now that you haven't. It's all over. If there were fifty children, it's all over. Suzanne isn't going to believe any such cheap story as that, and if she did she wouldn't leave me. She knows why you do it. All the days of weariness are over for me, all the days of being afraid. I'm not an ordinary man, and I'm not going to live an ordinary life. You have always insisted on holding me down to the little, cheap conventions as you have understood them. Out in Wisconsin, out in Blackwood. Nothing doing. It's all over from now on. Everything's over. This house, my job, my real estate deal--everything. I don't care what your condition is. I love this girl in there, and I'm going to have her. Do you hear me? I love her, and I'm going to have her. She's mine. She suits me. I love her, and no power under G.o.d is going to stay me. Now you think this child proposition you have fixed up is going to stay me, but you are going to find out that it can't, that it won't. It's a trick, and I know it, and you know it. It's too late. It might have last year, or two years ago, or three, but it won't work now. You have played your last card. That girl in there belongs to me, and I'm going to have her."

Again he smoothed his face in a weary way, pausing to sway the least bit in his chair. His teeth were set, his eyes hard. Consciously he realized that it was a terrible situation that confronted him, hard to wrestle with.

Angela gazed at him with the eyes of one who is not quite sure that she even sees aright. She knew that Eugene had developed. He had become stronger, more urgent, more defiant, during all these years in which he had been going upward. He was no more like the Eugene who had clung to her for companionship in the dark days at Biloxi and elsewhere than a child is like a grown man. He was harder, easier in his manner, more indifferent, and yet, until now, there had never been a want of traces of the old Eugene. What had become of them so suddenly? Why was he so raging, so bitter? This girl, this foolish, silly, selfish girl, with her Circe gift of beauty, by tolerance of his suit, by yielding, perhaps by throwing herself at Eugene's head, had done this thing. She had drawn him away from her in spite of the fact that they had appeared to be happily mated. Suzanne did not know that they were not. In this mood he might actually leave her, even as she was, with child. It depended on the girl. Unless she could influence her, unless she could bring pressure to bear in some way, Eugene might readily be lost to her, and then what a tragedy! She could not afford to have him go now. Why, in six months----! She shivered at the thought of all the misery a separation would entail. His position, their child, society, this apartment. Dear G.o.d, it would drive her crazy if he were to desert her now!

"Oh, Eugene," she said quite sadly and without any wrath in her voice at this moment, for she was too torn, terrified and disheveled in spirit to feel anything save a haunting sense of fear, "you don't know what a terrible mistake you are making. I did do this thing on purpose, Eugene. It is true. Long ago in Philadelphia with Mrs. Sanifore I went to a physician to see if it were possible that I might have a child. You know that I always thought that I couldn't. Well, he told me that I could. I went because I thought that you needed something like that, Eugene, to balance you. I knew you didn't want one. I thought you would be angry when I told you. I didn't act on it for a long while. I didn't want one myself. I hoped that it might be a little girl if ever there was one, because I know that you like little girls. It seems silly now in the face of what has happened tonight. I see what a mistake I have made. I see what the mistake is, but I didn't mean it evilly, Eugene. I didn't. I wanted to hold you, to bind you to me in some way, to help you. Do you utterly blame me, Eugene? I'm your wife, you know."

He stirred irritably, and she paused, scarcely knowing how to go on. She could see how terribly irritated he was, how sick at heart, and yet she resented this att.i.tude on his part. It was so hard to endure when all along she had fancied that she had so many just claims on him, moral, social, other claims, which he dare not ignore. Here she was now, sick, weary, pleading with him for something that ought justly be hers--and this coming child's!

"Oh, Eugene," she said quite sadly, and still without any wrath in her voice, "please think before you make a mistake. You don't really love this girl, you only think you do. You think she is beautiful and good and sweet and you are going to tear everything up and leave me, but you don't love her, and you are going to find it out. You don't love anyone, Eugene. You can't. You are too selfish. If you had any real love in you, some of it would have come out to me, for I have tried to be all that a good wife should be, but it has been all in vain. I've known you haven't liked me all these years. I've seen it in your eyes, Eugene. You have never come very close to me as a lover should unless you had to or you couldn't avoid me. You have been cold and indifferent, and now that I look back I see that it has made me so. I have been cold and hard. I've tried to steel myself to match what I thought was your steeliness, and now I see what it has done for me. I'm sorry. But as for her, you don't love her and you won't. She's too young. She hasn't any ideas that agree with yours. You think she's soft and gentle, and yet big and wise, but do you think if she had been that she could have stood up there as she did tonight and looked me in the eyes--me, your wife--and told me that she loved you--you, my husband? Do you think if she had any shame she would be in there now knowing what she does, for I suppose you have told her? What kind of a girl is that, anyway? You call her good? Good! Would a good girl do anything like that?"

"What is the use of arguing by appearances?" asked Eugene, who had interrupted her with exclamations of opposition and bitter comments all through the previous address. "The situation is one which makes anything look bad. She didn't intend to be put in a position where she would have to tell you that she loved me. She didn't come here to let me make love to her in this apartment. I made love to her. She's in love with me, and I made her love me. I didn't know of this other thing. If I had, it wouldn't have made any difference. However, let that be as it will. So it is. I'm in love with her, and that's all there is to it."

Angela stared at the wall. She was half propped up on a pillow, and had no courage now to speak of and no fighting strength.

"I know what it is with you, Eugene," she said, after a time; "it's the yoke that galls. It isn't me only; it's anyone. It's marriage. You don't want to be married. It would be the same with any woman who might ever have loved and married you, or with any number of children. You would want to get rid of her and them. It's the yoke that galls you, Eugene. You want your freedom, and you won't be satisfied until you have it. A child wouldn't make any difference. I can see that now."

"I want my freedom," he exclaimed bitterly and inconsiderately, "and, what's more, I'm going to have it! I don't care. I'm sick of lying and pretending, sick of common little piffling notions of what you consider right and wrong. For eleven or twelve years now I have stood it. I have sat with you every morning at breakfast and every evening at dinner, most of the time when I didn't want to. I have listened to your theories of life when I didn't believe a word of what you said, and didn't care anything about what you thought. I've done it because I thought I ought to do it so as not to hurt your feelings, but I'm through with all that. What have I had? Spying on me, opposition, searching my pockets for letters, complaining if I dared to stay out a single evening and did not give an account of myself.

"Why didn't you leave me after that affair at Riverdale? Why do you hang on to me when I don't love you? One'd think I was prisoner and you my keeper. Good Christ! When I think of it, it makes me sick! Well, there's no use worrying over that any more. It's all over. It's all beautifully over, and I'm done with it. I'm going to live a life of my own hereafter. I'm going to carve out some sort of a career that suits me. I'm going to live with someone that I can really love, and that's the end of it. Now you run and do anything you want to."

He was like a young horse that had broken rein and that thinks that by rearing and plunging he shall become forever free. He was thinking of green fields and delightful pastures. He was free now, in spite of what she had told him. This night had made him so, and he was going to remain free. Suzanne would stand by him, he felt it. He was going to make it perfectly plain to Angela that never again, come what may, would things be as they were.

"Yes, Eugene," she replied sadly, after listening to his protestations on this score, "I think that you do want your freedom, now that I see you. I'm beginning to see what it means to you. But I have made such a terrible mistake. Are you thinking about me at all? What shall I do? It is true that there will be a child unless I die. I may die. I'm afraid of that, or I was. I am not now. The only reason I would care to live would be to take care of it. I didn't think I was going to be ill with rheumatism. I didn't think my heart was going to be affected in this way. I didn't think that you were going to do as you have done, but now that you have, nothing matters. Oh," she said sadly, hot tears welling to her eyes, "it is all such a mistake! If I only hadn't done this!"

Eugene stared at the floor. He wasn't softened one bit. He did not think she was going to die--no such luck! He was thinking that this merely complicated things, or that she might be acting, but that it could not stand in his way. Why had she tried to trick him in this way? It was her fault. Now she was crying, but that was the old hypocrisy of emotion that she had used so often. He did not intend to desert her absolutely. She would have plenty to live on. Merely he did not propose to live with her, if he could help it, or only nominally, anyhow. The major portion of his time should be given to Suzanne.

"I don't care what it costs," he said finally. "I don't propose to live with you. I didn't ask you to have a child. It was none of my doing. You're not going to be deserted financially, but I'm not going to live with you."

He stirred again, and Angela stared hot-cheeked. The hardness of the man enraged her for the moment. She did not believe that she would starve, but their improving surroundings, their home, their social position, would be broken up completely.

"Yes, yes. I understand," she pleaded, with an effort at controlling herself, "but I am not the only one to be considered. Are you thinking of Mrs. Dale, and what she may do and say? She isn't going to let you take Suzanne if she knows it, without doing something about it. She is an able woman. She loves Suzanne, however self-willed she may be. She likes you now, but how long do you think she is going to like you when she learns what you want to do with her daughter? What are you going to do with her? You can't marry her under a year even if I were willing to give you a divorce. You could scarcely get a divorce in that time."

"I'm going to live with her, that's what I'm going to do," declared Eugene. "She loves me, she's willing to take me just as I am. She doesn't need marriage ceremonies and rings and vows and chains. She doesn't believe in them. As long as I love her, all right. When I cease to love her, she doesn't want me any more. Some difference in that, isn't there?" he added bitterly. "It doesn't sound exactly like Blackwood, does it?"

Angela bridled. His taunts were cruel.

"She says that, Eugene," she replied quietly, "but she hasn't had time to think. You've hypnotized her for the moment. She's fascinated. When she stops to think later, if she has any sense, any pride---- But, oh, why should I talk, you won't listen. You won't think." Then she added: "But what do you propose to do about Mrs. Dale? Don't you suppose she will fight you, even if I do not? I wish you would stop and think, Eugene. This is a terrible thing you are doing."

"Think! Think!" he exclaimed savagely and bitterly. "As though I had not been thinking all these years. Think! h.e.l.l! I haven't done anything but think. I've thought until the soul within me is sick. I've thought until I wish to G.o.d I could stop. I've thought about Mrs. Dale. Don't you worry about her. I'll settle this matter with her later. Just now I want to convince you of what I am going to do. I'm going to have Suzanne, and you're not going to stop me."

"Oh, Eugene," sighed Angela, "if something would only make you see! It is partially my fault. I have been hard and suspicious and jealous, but you have given me some cause to be, don't you think? I see now that I have made a mistake. I have been too hard and too jealous, but I could reform if you would let me try." (She was thinking now of living, not dying.) "I know I could. You have so much to lose. Is this change worth it? You know so well how the world looks at these things. Why, even if you should obtain your freedom from me under the circ.u.mstances, what do you suppose the world would think? You couldn't desert your child. Why not wait and see what happens? I might die. There have been such cases. Then you would be free to do as you pleased. That is only a little way off."

It was a specious plea, calculated to hold him; but he saw through it.

"Nothing doing!" he exclaimed, in the slang of the day. "I know all about that. I know what you're thinking. In the first place, I don't believe you are in the condition you say you are. In the next place, you're not going to die. I don't propose to wait to be free. I know you, and I've no faith in you. What I do needn't affect your condition. You're not going to starve. No one need know, unless you start a row about it. Suzanne and I can arrange this between ourselves. I know what you're thinking, but you're not going to interfere. If you do, I'll smash everything in sight--you, this apartment, my job----" He clenched his hands desperately, determinedly.

Angela's hands were tingling with nervous pains while Eugene talked. Her eyes ached and her heart fluttered. She could not understand this dark, determined man, so savage and so resolute in his manner. Was this Eugene who was always moving about quietly when he was near her, getting angry at times, but always feeling sorry and apologizing? She had boasted to some of her friends, and particularly to Marietta, in a friendly, jesting way that she could wind Eugene around her little finger. He was so easy-going in the main, so quiet. Here he was a raging demon almost, possessed of an evil spirit of desire and tearing up his and hers and Suzanne's life for that matter, by the roots. She did not care for Suzanne, though, now, or Mrs. Dale. Her own blighted life, and Eugene's, looming so straight ahead of her terrified her.

"What do you suppose Mr. Colfax will do when he hears of this?" she asked desperately, hoping to frighten him.

"I don't care a d.a.m.n what Mr. Colfax will or can do!" he replied sententiously. "I don't care a d.a.m.n what anybody does or says or thinks. I love Suzanne Dale. She loves me. She wants me. There's an end of that. I'm going to her now. You stay me if you can."

Suzanne Dale! Suzanne Dale! How that name enraged and frightened Angela! Never before had she witnessed quite so clearly the power of beauty. Suzanne Dale was young and beautiful. She was looking at her only tonight thinking how fascinating she was--how fair her face--and here was Eugene bewitched by it, completely undone. Oh, the terror of beauty! The terror of social life generally! Why had she entertained? Why become friendly with the Dales? But then there were other personalities, almost as lovely and quite as young--Marjorie McLennan, Florence Reel, Henrietta Tenman, Annette Kean. It might have been any one of these. She couldn't have been expected to shut out all young women from Eugene's life. No; it was Eugene. It was his att.i.tude toward life. His craze about the beautiful, particularly in women. She could see it now. He really was not strong enough. Beauty would always upset him at critical moments. She had seen it in relation to herself--the beauty of her form, which he admired so, or had admired. "G.o.d," she prayed silently, "give me wisdom now. Give me strength. I don't deserve it, but help me. Help me to save him. Help me to save myself."

"Oh, Eugene," she said aloud, hopelessly, "I wish you would stop and think. I wish you would let Suzanne go her way in the morning, and you stay sane and calm. I won't care about myself. I can forgive and forget. I'll promise you I'll never mention it. If a child comes, I'll do my best not to let it annoy you. I'll try yet not to have one. It may not be too late. I'll change from this day forth. Oh!" She began to cry.

"No! By G.o.d!" he said, getting up. "No! No! No! I'm through now. I'm through! I've had enough of fake hysterics and tears. Tears one minute, and wrath and hate the next. Subtlety! Subtlety! Subtlety! Nothing doing. You've been master and jailer long enough. It's my turn now. I'll do a little jailing and task-setting for a change. I'm in the saddle, and I'm going to stay there. You can cry if you want to, you can do what you please about the child. I'm through. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed, but this thing is going to stand just as it does. I'm through, and that's all there is to it."

He strode out of the room angrily and fiercely, but nevertheless, when he reached it, he sat in his own room, which was on the other side of the studio from Angelas, and did not sleep. His mind was on fire with the thought of Suzanne; he thought of the old order which had been so quickly and so terribly broken. Now, if he could remain master, and he could, he proposed to take Suzanne. She would come to him, secretly no doubt, if necessary. They would open a studio, a second establishment. Angela might not give him a divorce. If what she said was true, she couldn't. He wouldn't want her to, but he fancied from this conversation that she was so afraid of him that she would not stir up any trouble. There was nothing she could really do. He was in the saddle truly, and would stay there. He would take Suzanne, would provide amply for Angela, would visit all those lovely public resorts he had so frequently seen, and he and Suzanne would be happy together.

Suzanne! Suzanne! Oh, how beautiful she was! And to think how n.o.bly and courageously she had stood by him tonight. How she had slipped her hand into his so sweetly and had said, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla." Yes, she loved him. No doubt of that. She was young, exquisite, beautifully rounded in her budding emotion and feeling. She was going to develop into a wonderful woman, a real one. And she was so young. What a pity it was he was not free now! Well, wait, this would right all things, and, meanwhile, he would have her. He must talk to Suzanne. He must tell her how things stood. Poor little Suzanne! There she was in her room wondering what was to become of her, and here was he. Well, he couldn't go to her tonight. It did not look right, and, besides, Angela might fight still. But tomorrow! Tomorrow! Oh, tomorrow he would walk and talk with her, and they would plan. Tomorrow he would show her just what he wanted to do and find out what she could do.

CHAPTER XI.

This night pa.s.sed without additional scenes, though as it stood it was the most astonishing and tremendous in all Eugene's experience. He had, not up to the time Angela walked into the room, really expected anything so dramatic and climacteric to happen, though what he did expect was never really very clear to him. At times as he lay and thought now he fancied that he might eventually have to give Suzanne up, though how, or when, or why, he could not say. He was literally crazed by her, and could not think that such a thing could really be. At other moments he fancied that powers outside of this visible life, the life attested by the five senses, had arranged this beautiful finish to his career for him so that he might be perfectly happy. All his life he had fancied that he was leading a more or less fated life, princ.i.p.ally more. He thought that his art was a gift, that he had in a way been sent to revolutionize art in America, or carry it one step farther forward and that nature was thus constantly sending its apostles or special representatives over whom it kept watch and in whom it was well pleased. At other times he fancied he might be the sport or toy of untoward and malicious powers, such as those which surrounded and accomplished Macbeth's tragic end, and which might be intending to make an ill.u.s.tration of him. As he looked at life at times, it seemed to do this with certain people. The fates lied. Lovely, blandishing lures were held out only to lead men to destruction. He had seen other men who seemed to have been undone in this way. Was he to be so treated?

Angela's unexpected and peculiar announcement made it look that way. Still he did not believe it. Life had sent Suzanne across his path for a purpose. The fates or powers had seen he was miserable and unhappy. Being a favorite child of Heaven, he was to be rewarded for his sufferings by having her. She was here now--quickly, forcefully thrust into his arms, so to speak, so that perhaps he might have her all the more quickly. How silly it seemed to him now to have brought her into his own apartment to make love to her and get caught, and yet how fortunate, too, the hand of fate! No doubt it was intended. Anyhow, the shame to him, the shame to Angela and Suzanne, the terrific moments and hours that each was enduring now--these were things which were unfortunately involved in any necessarily great readjustment. It was probable that it had to come about this way. It was better so than to go on living an unhappy life. He was really fitted for something better, he thought--a great career. He would have to adjust this thing with Angela in some way now, either leave her, or make some arrangement whereby he could enjoy the company of Suzanne uninterrupted. There must be no interference. He did not propose to give her up. The child might come. Well and good. He would provide for it, that would be all. He recalled now the conversation he had had with Suzanne in which she had said that she would live with him if she could. The time had come. Their plan for a studio should now be put into effect. It must be secret. Angela would not care. She could not help herself. If only the events of this night did not terrorize Suzanne into retracing her steps! He had not explained to her how he was to get rid of Angela apart from what she had heard this night. She was thinking, he knew, that they could go on loving each other in this tentative fashion, occupying a studio together, perhaps, not caring what the world thought, not caring what her mother thought, ignoring her brother and sister and Angela, and being happy with Eugene only. He had never tried to disillusion her. He was not thinking clearly himself. He was rushing forward in an aimless way, desiring the companionship of her beautiful mind and body. Now he saw he must act or lose her. He must convince her in the face of what Angela had said, or let her go. She would probably be willing to come to him rather than leave him entirely. He must talk, explain, make her understand just what a trick this all was.

Angela had not slept, but lay staring at the ceiling in the dark, her eyes a study in despair. When morning came they were none of them further along in their conclusions than they were the night before, save to know, each separately and distinctly, that a great tragedy or change was at hand. Suzanne had thought and thought, or tried to, but the impulse of blood and pa.s.sion in her were Eugeneward and she could only see the situation from their own point of view. She loved him, she thought--must love him, since he was so ready to sacrifice so much for her; yet at the same time there was a strange, disconcerting nebulosity about her which, had Eugene fully realized it at this moment, would have terrified him. In her state, which was one of wondering delight at the beauty of life and love--a fatalistic security in the thought that joy was to come to her throughout life--much joy. She could not see the grimness of Eugene's position. She could not understand the agony of a soul that had never really tasted supreme bliss in love, and had wanted, however foolishly, the accessories of wealth, and had never had them. Terrorized lest after the first sip of so wonderful a joy it should be removed forever, Eugene was tingling in the dark of his own room--tingling and yet reaching, almost with outstretched hands, to the splendor of the life that was seemingly before him. Suzanne, however, to whom life had given so much, was resting in a kind of still ease, like that which might fill a drowsy poppyland of joy where all the pleasures had been attained and were being tasted at leisure. Life at its worst to her was not so bad. Witness this storm which had been quelled in part by Eugene and was like to blow over as nothing at all. Things came round of their own accord in time, if one let them. She had always felt so sure that whatever happened no ill would befall her, and here she was courted and protected by Eugene even in his own home!

In this situation, therefore, she was not grieving either for Eugene, for Angela, or for herself. She could not. Some dispositions are so. Eugene was able to take care of himself and her and Angela financially, she thought. She was really looking forward to that better day when this misalliance should be broken up, and Eugene and presumably Angela would be really happier. She wanted Eugene to be much happier, and Angela, for that matter--and through her, if possible, since Eugene's happiness seemed to depend on her. But unlike Eugene, she was already thinking that she could live well enough without him, if it must be. She did not want to. She felt that her greatest happiness would be in repaying him for past ills and pains; but if they must part for a time, for instance, it would not make so much difference. Time would bring them together. But if it didn't---- But it would. Why think otherwise? But how wonderful it was that her beauty, her mere physical beauty, which seemed unimportant to her, made him so wild. She could not know of the actual physical pain gnawing at his vitals, but it was so plain that he was madly stricken with her. His whole face and his burning black eyes riveted on her in intense delight and almost agony proved it. Was she so beautiful? Surely not! Yet he yearned over her so. And it was so delightful.